Batman Rebirth
by BlueShimmer
Summary: Six years have passes since the 'death' of Batman. Cobblepot Industries has gradually grown to be a major power within the rebuilt Gotham City, both in social light and in the underworld. No one was crazy enough to take on the so-called 'Emperor' of Gotham - except for one man. Using the hacker handle of Riddler, the money and the brains have teamed, and may prove unstoppable.
1. Chapter 1

BATMAN REBIRTH

Chapter 1

The small entourage of vehicles moved slowly along the open and currently rather quiet streets of downtown Gotham, the night shrouding the city like a thick blanket. There were three vehicles in the tiny caravan carrying its precious cargo – two smaller cars, all black and with no license plates surrounding a long white limousine with windows tinted so dark, they were as black as obsidian stone to anyone who looked their way. Slowly, the trio halted, and the back window of the limousine opened. A man sat within, peering up at the building under construction they had halted beside, but made no effort to rise. He was a tall and somewhat thin man, dark hair kept somewhat long and as perfectly manicured as his nails, his nose hooked and lips thin, a cigarette pressed between them with a trail of smoke lazily drifting up and out of the open window. The building was obviously under construction, surrounded by a chain link fence plastered with advertising signs of the fence company, the heavy equipment suppliers, and of course, the construction company doing the actual work, bright white letters on black background proclaiming "COBBLEPOT INDUSTRIES."

"The Daggett Building," said the man in a slightly lazy fashion to the man who sat across from him in the limo, though he kept his piercing blue gaze out the window. He raised the black straight umbrella he held in his hand and tapped it gently on the floor of the vehicle, obviously thoughtful. "We were supposed to have completed this project last week." He spoke in a crisp English accent, his tone even and smooth, even with the obvious displeasure that they were behind schedule on a very large project like this. "Precisely what has been the hold up, Rook? And why was I not informed until now?"

The man who sat across from him sat very still indeed, his jaw set and near black hair ruffled, his hands clenched in his lap. "The foreman told me just two weeks ago that everything was on schedule, Mr. Cobblepot," he said in a surprisingly firm tone. "I trusted him to have done his job right. That was my mistake."

"Yes. It was," said the man in the tuxedo idly as he looked back up at the building. While it looked nearly finished to an untrained eye, Cobblepot could tell that the interior was no where near finished, and that the plastic wrapping for the windows littering the ground meant that they had only just been installed, and likely not been faced or chalked yet. More delays. "Business in Gotham is running dry, Rook. It would be most unprofessional of me to not deliver what I promised to my clients. Gotham has been a good place to expand the business on both fronts for the past six years, but there is no where left to build. It is, after all, an island. And I will not have my reputation tarnished by foolish mistakes like this."

"Yes, sir," Rook replied in a quiet tone.

Cobblepot sighed and rolled up the window, leaning back in his leather seat as he reached up to straighten his bow tie, leaning back on the black umbrella. Flicking the ashes from his cigarette into a provided tray, he looked up at Rook once more. "In the future, I expect more from you," he said in a tone that suggested a scolding. "The foreman who told you it would be finished... I have no use for an employee who would lie to me. Take care of it." Rook merely nodded in reply.

"You're all business, aren't you, Mr. Cobblepot?" asked a soft and teasing voice. Cobblepot turned his head slightly to look at the woman who was beside him. Blond, with a stupid ditsy smile, her finger gripped by a lock of her smooth hair as she twirled it, eyes a lovely chocolate brown. She would do for now... Cobblepot doubted highly she would last more than a week at her current position, however.

"Of course, Miss Partridge," he said to her with a charming smile, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth to tap the ashes into the ashtray again. The girl did not look put off or anything but somewhat shy when he called her that – apparently it was her real name. "Do not fret. We will be arriving at the club in just a few moments."

"I can't believe I'm really going to the Iceberg Lounge," said Miss Partridge breathlessly, clearly excited as she reached out to touch Oswald's sleeve, her eyes wide and shimmering. "The waiting list to get a table there is a month long. How did you get in?"

"Easy," he said smoothly, smiling as he put the cigarette back between his lips, took a deep drag, the burning hot tip bright red as he did so, before he pulled it away and exhaled. "I own it."

In a matter of moments, the limousine pulled up to the front door of the short but expansively wide black building. On the exterior, it would have been very low key indeed if it weren't for the hoards of people clustered behind red velvet ropes vying for their chance to get in. Two very tall, very large men were standing beside the door, dressed in black suits and wearing sunglasses despite the darkness of the night. Bright searchlights stretched into the sky from the roof of the building, swirling around to draw the attention of party-goers out on the town, even though the place was already filling up with those who had reservations and those who the bouncers determined would make their other guests happier.

The driver had parked next to the carpet that extended directly out from the front door to the curb, and he opened their door for them as every head in line turned in wonder to see who had showed up. A wave of sound spread over the crowd as Oswald stepped out, tossing up his umbrella and catching it around the middle with a smile, before turning to help the girl, Miss Partridge, after them. Waving lazily to the crowd with his umbrella-laden hand, Cobblepot lead them up the red carpet toward the club as Rook exited the limousine right after entirely unnoticed, following them in silence.

The club itself was massive inside. Two stories with a wide open dance floor in the center of the building, the stage wide open and with no back or curtains to it, wide enough to hold a six-person band easily on it, the DJ's booth set right in front of the raised platform. The entire place was done up to look as if it were made of snow or ice, the floor made of thick Plexiglas with water shimmering with lights below it, ice blue leather upholstering all of the lounge chairs, and white painted metal making up the rest of the furniture. Dozens of little booths around the lower floor made for cozy spaces for couples and parties to nestle, with lots of small round tables set near the bar, and even more up on the second floor, where the private VIP and meeting rooms were located. The top of the dance floor was crowned with a massive and beautiful crystal chancellor that shone multicolored light down onto the dance floor like a disco ball would. Dozens of people were already inside the room, drinking, laughing, talking, and of course, dancing.

Oswald lead the girl up the grand staircase to the rim of the second floor, using his umbrella as a walking stick, setting her down at the table near the railing that overlooked the dance floor, just in front of the second bar. The band below was rapidly setting up as the DJ kept the crowd complaisant with prerecorded mixes of his own. There were more than a dozen staff members roaming the tables, taking drink orders and mingling with customers to make them feel welcome and happy, not including the two bartenders at the lower bar the one at the upper bar, and the security posted at nearly every other door.

"Wait right her, my dear," he said as he set Miss Partridge down and kissed her hand with a smile. "I won't be long. I just have a little bit of unfinished business to attend to before we enjoy the rest of our evening. A new employee to initiate, you see."

The girl hardly seemed to notice was Oswald was saying as she smiled widely, taking in the interior of the club, the beautiful dance floor, and the many happy customers that surrounded them. "Okay, Ossy," she said in an airy tone. Cobblepot visibly winced at the nickname and looked at her disapprovingly, but she didn't notice, her eyes already elsewhere. Perhaps a week had been a generous estimate...

Straightening his black tie, Oswald took hold of his umbrella again and made his way to one of the several private rooms around the second floor, the guards only standing slightly straighter as he moved passed them and into the surprisingly expansive room. The private rooms were done in the same white and ice blue as the main room, a long rectangular table within and a large fish tank installed in the wall with a back light that illuminated the tropical fish within. Pictures of glaciers and icebergs and marine life decorated the other walls, and a self-service bar table was visible at the back of the room. Six men and one woman were already inside, and two of the men obviously did not see or hear him enter, for they alone kept conversing.

"It's simple," said the small, rat-faced man who was pouring himself a glass of brandy from the bar, squinting up at the much younger man before him, just barely out of high school by the look of him. "I know you're new here, but it's hardly rocket science, kid. Cobblepot does things his certain ways. You just pay attention to the details and you'll do just fine."

The older man took a swallow of the brandy within the glass as the youngster visibly fumbled with it, clearly nervous. "It's... hard to know what's truth and what's rumor, what with all the crazy stuff flying around out there on the streets..."

"Well, let me spell out a few of the more basic points to you," said the older man, swirling the brandy in his glass and looking thoughtful. "He has code names for all his men. He loves birds, you see. So we've all got names to go after birds. You'll get one, too. Learn it. It'll be your name here. Me, they calls me Whistler here." He shrugged, obviously thoughtless on the subject and sipping his drink again. "Essentially, you just do what you're told and don't ask any questions. You do that, you get a nice paycheck. Done and done."

"D-Does Mr. Cobblepot have a code name?" asked the youth curiously as he sipped his brandy and made a strained face.

"As a matter of fact, he does," he said with a wide grin, the other people in the room looking pale as Oswald listened in a dead silence, his expression very grim. "But what else is to be expected? He's a smart guy, richer than you can imagine, but bit of an odd ball, if you know what I mean. Always wears a tux, obsessed with birds, eats that raw fish stuff the Japs like... People have taken to calling him Penguin. Don't think he likes it much, though." He snickered and put the glass up to his mouth again.

"Oh, I think you know very well how much I detest that name, Whistler," said Oswald suddenly, his tone icy and dark. Whistler startled and whipped around, pale as a sheet as he saw Cobblepot standing behind him, his open jaw shut suddenly as Cobblepot pressed the tip of the black umbrella to the man's throat. His eyes, which had been so bright before, now shone with a dark anger that seemed to bubble up from his heart. "And I think this is the second time I've caught you using it."

"N-No, sir, not using it," he sputtered quickly. "J-Just tellin' the new kid w-what's what, that's all!" He was slightly trembling, as if Cobblepot was threatening him with something much more dangerous than the tip of an umbrella.

"How about you inform the young lad," he said, glancing up at the young man who now had his back to the wall and was gripping the glass of brandy between two hands, but looking more confused than afraid, "what code name I prefer?"

Whistler took in several gasping breaths, swallowing roughly. "E...Emperor," he said quietly.

Oswald smiled at that, and pulled the umbrella tip slowly away, much to Whistler's obvious relief. In a flash, the umbrella whipped up again, slamming sharply against the side of Whistler's head. Obviously, whatever the umbrella was made of was much more durable than simple hollow aluminum like most umbrellas, for it crashed against Whistler's head as if he'd been hit by a crowbar, dropping him to the ground at once. "And you," he said to the young man, "would do well to remember that." He sneered down at Whistler, who squirmed on the ground, injured but very much alive.

"Now," said Oswald, his tone pleasant again, ignoring the previous events entirely, motioning to the youngster to have a seat at the table, "have a seat. We have your future to discuss... Weaver."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Stars and swirls ran before John's vision as he stared up at the ceiling. His hearing was nothing but a buzz, and the ceiling tiles above him swirled together in one white mass. His entire body ached as if he'd been hit by a freight train, and vaguely, as his mind came back, he wondered if he would ever get used to this. He thought he heard his name being called, but it was muffled and distorted, and frankly it hurt too much to move his head at the moment, so he did not answer, contemplating why he continued to do this to himself.

An olive toned, grinning face appeared in his vision as it began to clear, peering down at him from overhead. The older man's dark hair was short and well kept, his black t-shirt and training pants hardly even wrinkled, the black belt around his waist still perfectly creased. "John?" he said again, still grinning. "As I get paid by the hour, I would normally not complain, but I also like to see my students get up from the mat." He moved around to John's side, reaching down to help him up. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit with a ton of bricks," John muttered as he reached up, taking his teacher's hand and letting the older man haul him up to his feet.

"Good!" he said brightly.

John looked confused and somewhat bemused by that. "Good? How's that good?"

"Last week when I took you down that hard, you said it felt as if you'd been hit by two tons of bricks," he replied in a continued bright tone, letting go of John's hand to put his hands on his hips. "If nothing else, your stamina is improving!"

"I'm glad you can see the sunny side of this, Raz," John muttered, rubbing his back where he'd been slammed on the mat.

"Hey, I told you already, Johnny, in this building while you're getting your ass kicked, I'm Master Yadin," said Raz, though he didn't seem too overly serious. "And of course I see the sunny side of it. I get to beat you up almost everyday!"

"Alright, alright... What time is it?" asked John, grumbling when Raz had called him 'Johnny'.

"Half passed six. Still got half an hour!" said Raz with a sort of sadistic glee. "You know the moves, John, you have the strength. You've been training in Krav Maga non-stop for over six years now. Now it's all about execution. Let's do it again!"

John nodded, shaking out his hands with a low, deep exhale, and waited for Raz to attack him. The smaller, older man moved inward to strike, and John was able to dip slightly left and let the bow go wide. In response, he raised his hands and gripped Raz's arm sharply, pulling him up over his shoulder to slam him down to the mat. However, he made the mistake of not paying attention to Raz's legs, which immediately clamped around John's shoulders, and using John's inertia, Raz yanked him over his body and slammed him to the mat, his legs clenched tight around John's neck and shoulder. "Situational awareness, John!" he shouted down at the man's head between his clenched thighs as John struggled hard to escape, but at last had to slam his palm down on the mat, a sign of surrender. "Be aware your enemy's location at all times. That includes his body parts!"

After potentially the longest half hour of John's entire life, ending up with him on the mat three or four more times, he exited the dojo, dressed in his civilian jeans and t-shirt, his duffel bag over his shoulder and a water bottle in his hand. "Don't forget, John," called Raz from the doorway, causing the young man to turn back and look up the short stairway to where his friend and teacher stood. "Class tomorrow at seven on Thursday. Next private lesson following."

"I'll be here with bells on. See ya then, Raz," he replied with a slight smirk, raising his water bottle to him as he started down the crowded downtown streets to where he had parked his car. He was tired and he was sore, but he felt good, too. He always felt good after training hard like this. His body had gone under quite a drastic change the last few years since he had begun his Krav Maga training. He had never exactly been out of shape, but the intense work outs with Raz, along with a better diet his wages as a private detective afforded him and his determination to always be vigilant and prepared for whatever might come next had formed him into a well muscled athlete. And icing on the cake was that he could write off his training as an employment expense on his taxes, so it wasn't even costing him anything!

A harsh ringing sounded from his back pocket, and he swung back sharply to grab it as if it has stung him. He hated the sound of a ringing cell phone, truth be told. Mostly because with his lack of family and social life, it was usually his job telling him he needed to work overtime. The number on the display, however, was not his job, but social services. He hadn't spoken to them in a very long time indeed... Eyes narrowed, he touched the button and held the phone up to his ear. "Blake here," he greeted, continuing to walk toward his car.

There was a long silence as whoever was on the line spoke into John's ear. Steadily, his pace slowed and his eyes narrowed in some confusion. "Wait... Hold on a second. Who now? He what?" Another pause as he stopped entirely, now apparently agitated. "No, no, don't do that... I'll be there..." he looked down at his wrist watch, "in fifteen minutes. Just... just hold him there, okay? Does he look like he's going to run?" He waited for the reply and then nodded. "Fine, that's fine. I'll be right there. Yeah. Thanks."

With a sharp sigh of annoyance, John hung up the phone and now hurried to his car parked in the parking garage not far away, tucking his phone in his pocket. This was exactly what he needed right now...

The drive to the social services building was not a comfortable one for John, to say the least. What he was going to say to who was waiting for him swirled in his head, and he couldn't decide even now if he was going to shout or not. Luckily, this train of thought made time pass quickly, even in Gotham rush hour traffic, and it was only a short quarter hour later when he pulled up to the social services building, unfortunately familiar with it from his time as an orphan in his youth. It hadn't changed all that much, to be honest... Despite its proximity to the police station, it had not accrued much damage in Bane's occupation, and as much of the city had taken severe damage from the explosions and fighting that had occurred there, not much had been changed or fixed in the buildings left undamaged, even if it was sorely needed.

Parking right out front of the building, John left his duffel bag in the back seat and hurried up onto the curb, looking at the woman at the receptionist desk as he entered. At least a dozen people were in the office already, milling around and waiting for something or someone. A few were kids were by themselves, a few were couples looking anxious, but most were women who looked as if they had just come down from a high of some kind. John looked at none of them; he saw them enough, truth be told. He almost regretted becoming this involved in the social services devision. It wasn't his department by any stretch. He had felt... obligated, really. Almost regretted. Almost.

"Hey, Jeanne," he said to the middle aged, dark haired receptionist, obviously knowing her by sight alone. "He's back here?"

"Yes, he's right back that way, along with his social worker," said Jeanne, pointing to the open doorway on the right side of the desk that lead to a wide hallway. "He won't talk to anyone. I hope you have better luck, John."

"Thanks..." he muttered, moving down to the hallway. He knew what to expect, but that didn't necessarily prepare him. On a bench about halfway down the hallway sat an older boy, fifteen maybe but very slight in his appearance, that John knew very well by sight, even if he didn't know him very well personally. A plump black woman sat next to him, apparently trying to talk to him, but the boy wanted none of it, instead staring down at the Rubic's Cube in his hands. He was idly turning the pieces of the mixed up block with only half hearted interest, apparently just using it as a diversion to keep him from having to fully pay attention to the woman beside him.

"Rosanne," said John as he approached them. The kid did not look up, though he paused in his movements of the Rubic's Cube, as the woman stood up and stepped toward John to greet him.

"Oh, hello, Mister Blake," said Rosanne, though her tone indicated this was not a pleasant meeting. "I'm sorry, John, but there's just no where to put him anymore. If you weren't so involved with social services, I would have sent him to juvenile detention earlier today, but I wanted to let you know what was going on first." She folded her arms, glowering down at the boy who still kept his eyes low, though he was working on the cube again. "Tim was caught shoplifting – again. This makes the third time this month. The boy's home has had enough. They've discharged him."

"Discharged him?" John asked, eyes narrowed as he watched Tim.

"He's already got a criminal record longer than most adults I've seen. Breaking and entering, shoplifting, cyber crimes I don't even know what that means, car theft, vandalism, property damage, bodily assault-"

"I was cleared of that one," said Tim in a deadpan tone, his eyes still down.

"Well, that's hardly the point. You still did it," said Rosanne sharply.

"Self defense is self defense."

Rosanne shook her head, obviously frustrated. "He's old enough to be tried as an adult, Mister Blake, and that's precisely what they're going to do the next time he gets in trouble bad enough. The boy's home, the judges, me, we're all beyond frustrated with him. Either he goes home with you, or he goes to juvie tonight."

"Wait, what?" said John, clearly startled. "Home with me?"

"You're the only family he has left, Mister Blake. Even if you haven't spent much time together, you're still his uncle, his only relative who isn't dead or in jail already."

"I'm hardly equip to take care of a child..."

"And I'm hardly a child," said Tim in a cooler tone than before. "I'm sixteen, not six."

"Your attitude speaks differently," said Rosanne in retort. Tim did not reply to her.

John rubbed the back of his head, feeling a migraine coming on. This was not a decision he had wanted to make today, or ever. He didn't blame Tim for his own upbringing – his older brother had disappeared soon after the death of his father, leaving John alone in the boy's homes and orphanages ever since. He'd not seen his brother since, but according to reports, he had been one of the many killed during Bane's reign of terror, along with his wife, leaving the then ten year old Tim alone in the same situation John had been. Part of him regretted not taking him in then, but he knew that he could not have provided a good home for the boy. He was always at work, always training for something much bigger than himself. What good would he do raising a kid? Seeing Tim as he was now, though, perhaps it would have been better...

"Alright. I guess it can't really hurt to give him another chance," said John in a surprisingly calm tone. Tim looked up for the first time, his eyes a cutting blue, his own expression somewhat surprised. This was an unexpected turn of events...

"Good," said Rosanne, looking back at Tim, who quickly turned back to his Rubic's cube again. "I'll have the paperwork sent to the department tomorrow. You can take him now."

"Send me his rap sheet, too," he said, and Rosanne nodded in compliance. "Come on, Tim, let's go. Thanks, Rosanne. I'll be in touch" Tim did not argue, slowly making his way to his feet, stooping over to pick up his backpack he had stuffed under the bench. Standing up, he looked even smaller than he did sitting down, his gangly appearance giving him the look of a twelve year old rather than sixteen. Lack of food and care would do strange things to people, especially kids.

Setting down the Rubic's cube on the table beside the bench, he followed John out of the social services office without a word. The social worker let out a low, weary sigh as she watched them leave, reaching over to pick up the cube from the counter. She glanced over the cube, pausing for just a second as she noticed that it had been solved, turning it slowly over in her hand. She looked up to where John and Tim had gone, but the two had already left.

The drive to John's apartment was quiet and somehow more uncomfortable than the drive to the social services building had been. This was not at all what John had planned... Now he had a ward under his protection, his own nephew, contact with whom had been scant before and non-existant before Gotham's occupation. "My apartment's not exactly set up for two," said John as Tim stared out the window up at the large buildings they passed, "but the guest room has a futon in it. It'll do for now." Tim didn't reply vocally, but he did nod slightly in reply.

The silence grew between them again, until it was again broken by John. "What's with all the stealing, Tim? I was raised in a boy's home, I never starved."

"Wasn't doing it for food," Tim replied in a tone so idle, he may as well have been talking about the weather.

"Why then?"

"Entertainment. Stimulation, as it were."

"That? Okay, that isn't an acceptable answer," said John sourly. "You can't just steal because it's fun to do."

"That isn't what I meant," he said in the same idle tone, still staring out the window.

"You're talking in riddles right now and I really don't appreciate it," said John coolly. "I'm keeping you out of juvenile, the least you can do is give me a straight answer when I ask you a question."

Tim at last looked in at his uncle, eyes cold even if his tone remained idle. It was obvious he was not about to burst into a warm thanks for his uncle's 'great sacrifice'. "I stole some books, okay?"

"Books?" Whatever it was John had expected, it had not been that. "There's lots of books in the boy's homes."

"I read them," he said flatly, turning to look out the window again. "I read them all years ago. I wanted some new material."

The silence once more came over them. John wasn't quite sure what to say to that. Stealing was wrong, obviously, but Tim didn't sound like he was lying. Why would he lie about this, anyway?

"What school do you go to?" he asked.

"Don't go to school," Tim replied.

"What do you mean, you don't go to school?" he asked, narrowing his eyes. "Everyone in social services goes to school, you're a ward of the state. They make you go."

"I mean, I don't go to school," Tim replied in a half cold and half amused tone, looking back again. "I go to a place where an idiot rambles for an hour and then flunks me because I don't show my work on tests. Honestly? Not even worth my time to do."

"Flunk you... So you get all the answers wrong?" he asked, cocking a brow as he glanced at Tim.

Tim rolled his eyes wide and sighed, at last sitting himself in a way to look more directly at his uncle. "No. I get all the answers right. All of them. Every test I've ever been given has been offensively easy. I do the work in my head in half the time it'd take me to write it. So I don't write it. Teacher's assume I cheated and flunk me out. Simple as that. Not that I care. Ooh, some asshole hired to judge my intellect is pissed that I'm smarter than they are. Big deal."

"Don't use language like that, huh? There's no need for it," grunted John in displeasure, but he was left a little confused by what Tim was telling him. He hadn't looked at Tim's file in a long time, but he remembered with his conversations from Rosanne years before that Tim was smart; in fact, he was too smart for his own good. He back talked teachers and showed general disrespect for pretty much every authority figure he had ever been presented with.

When Tim didn't reply, John glanced at him. He had fallen into staring up at the tall buildings and the bright lights of Gotham night life, staring at the searchlights that stretched into the sky from places beyond. John often found himself watching the lights, wondering if he would ever see the bat there again, and if he had, what would he do about it? He was still so under trained compared to what Bruce Wayne had been. But Bruce had left him and him alone the coordinates to the cave beneath Wayne Manor. Had left him the suit and the computers and the devices that had been Batman's legacy. He had made his choice the day they had buried Bruce that he would do what he could to ensure that Batman had not died with him. Wayne had told him once that Batman was not a person, but a symbol. Batman could be anyone, and anyone could be Batman. That was the point.

"So what exactly do you do for a living?" Tim asked, at last showing a little interest in his uncle.

"Private detective," he replied as he pulled into a parking lot near a tall apartment building.

"Didn't you used to be a police officer?" Tim asked as he stepped out of the car, clutching his backpack tightly and looking up at the building.

"Yeah. A long time ago," John replied as he pulled the duffel bag out of his back seat.

"Why'd you leave it?" he asked, letting his uncle show him to the door.

"A lot of us left after Bane was put down," he said quietly, unlocking the front door for them. "I'll explain it to you someday." As Tim entered the building, John paused at the door, slowly looking around, before he ducked inside the building himself.


End file.
